Without acknowledging Conor at all, I faced the mountain mural and made my way toward the pool's edge.
“Ash, wait.”
I couldn’t stay any moment longer near him. Not with this painful tightness in my swimming trunks. Almost as if my body wanted to torture me for enjoying being so close to Conor.
Maybe I deserve the humiliation.
“Don’t leave,” said Conor, following me. As if I was a damn tourist guide, and my boner was the umbrella they always held aloft to be seen by even the slowest person in the group.
“Fuck off.”
“Stay in the water.”
I set my hands on the wet tiles and, with a strong push, lifted my body out of the water.
“Ash! There are people!”
I tried to abort by bending my arms to leverage myself back into the water. Instead, the waves my maneuver produced only helped me slip away, forcing my face to rush toward the tiles. At least my sudden death will end this martyrdom once and for all, I thought as I closed my eyes to face the never-ending darkness that would lie ahead once I smashed my head on the rock-hard coping.
When I hit the pool’s edge, it felt softer than I had expected. Maybe it is not my time to die because of a boner. I opened my eyes and saw Conor’s hand protecting my head like an airbag. But even though this accident was avoided, the bomb in my pants was still ticking. What was my body doing? First, the boner, now the slip-up. What is next? Hiccups? Uncontrollable weeping? Shitting my pants?
Full of rage, as this situation just got more frustrating, I gaped at the windows to see who was interfering with my attempts to escape. A couple—a bald guy in his thirties and his blonde girlfriend that looked like the human version of a doll—was gazing through the display window right at the mural, the basin, and us. Conor positioned himself before me, forcing me to look right at his face.
“Are you all right?”
I don’t doubt that his intentions were honorable. He certainly wanted to cover anything too disturbing for the couple to spot. But him being this close didn’t help at all. If anything, it made the twitching down there even worse.
“Leave me alone,” I said and glared at the ceiling, crossing my arms in front of my chest. My head was spinning around. Why did this have to happen? Why on earth with Conor? Is this just because of our roughhousing? Or could it be that… No, that is not possible. I can’t be attracted to him, can I? My eyes wandered around his face—Conor’s wet hair hanging over his smooth forehead, his slender nose covering his almost flat, narrow lips, and his worried yet understanding eyes. Could I have feelings for Conor that I didn’t want to face?
“Let’s at least wait until they are gone,” he suggested and arched his back like a cat.
I glared at the couple as they kept watching, talking, and pointing at us as if we were apes in a zoo. It almost felt like we were part of one of those animal shows that aired in the afternoon program of National Geographic.
"I had a boner three years ago at training camp,” he confessed out of the blue, and, being put on display such as that, the whole conversation fell into a sense of forbidden territory.
“The one in Bradenton,” he added and struck back, fixating his eyes on me as if this whole situation, the forbidden feeling, almost turned him on. I couldn’t help but lock my eyes on his too. I didn’t want to. But it felt like I was missing out on one of the most exciting things in my life if I turned away now.
“It was on the second day after that strenuous training in the rain. We all headed to the locker room, most of the others jumping right out of their clothes and into the showers. But unlike you, I could hide it. Just let myself fall behind.”
He dove his mouth underwater and swam closer to me like a crocodile sneaking within reach of its prey. When he was about two feet away, he got his mouth out of the water again.
“I suppose I could return the favor now.”
What does he mean by ‘returning the favor’? Was I the one causing his boner?
“Does that mean you wanked yourself off while thinking about me?” I whispered so only Conor could hear.
“If that is what you want to think,” he hid his laugh by diving under, swimming through the basin like a young seal searching for fish to catch, continuously producing small waves that burst onto my body, making gentle gushing sounds. I placed my hands in front of my crotch as inconspicuously as possible, just in case the surface wasn’t hiding as much as it should.
My eyes met those of the dude staring at us. I narrowed them, trying to gift him the angriest face I had ever put on. He swiftly looked away and then back at me, no doubt realizing how inappropriate their gaping must have been, and decided to walk away, followed by his girlfriend. Despite their departure, my boner stayed.
Conor emerged right next to me, leaning himself against the pool coping. Even though he noticed that we were alone again, he came close and whispered in my ear.
“I’m glad to see you still like me.”
“Could you please stop teasing me? That… is just me being a man. It has nothing to do with you.” At least, that is what I want to believe.
“Teasing you is me being a man.”
“No, this is you being gay.”
“Which I can see now you have no problem with. In more than one way.”
I shut my eyes to drown out his grin, this situation, this conversation. Everything was just too much for my brain to process.
“I’m sorry.”
I don’t know why I said that.
Keeping my eyes closed, I pushed myself off the edge, diving under to be with myself. To feel the water stream on my skin while I drown the stream of my consciousness in the deepest hollow place of my mind. I am not gay. I think. How does one know? Can my body realize things my brain doesn’t? And even if… I can’t surrender myself to him. Everything would change. Not only between us… Our friends, families, classmates, the football team, and even my teachers—what would they think if they found out?
I don’t think I’m ready for that.
I swam at least 20 rounds, only getting my head out of the water to breathe in the chlorine-filled air, immediately descending back under, not looking left or right.
When the tightness in my swimming trunks was finally released, I stopped, pushing my head over the surface. I was alone, but the sound of someone using the shower reached my ears. I swam to the coping, lifted my body onto the floor, and walked to the men’s locker room, leaving water dripping off my body.
“How late is….” I caught my breath as Conor’s bare, firm butt stared at my face. Why is he completely naked? I moved my eyes up his body, greeted by a provokingly innocent smile on Conor’s stupidly cute face.
“What?”
“Don’t ‘what’ me! Why are you naked?”
“I’m just taking a shower, Ash. That’s what you do after bathing in a chlorine-filled pool!”
I couldn't keep up with how relaxed he seemed about everything. I'm not risking getting a boner again. Therefore, I turned to the other shower, shaking my head, facing the wall to avoid looking at Conor.
Oh, you holy lukewarm water that felt hot after the cold pool. Please wash my thoughts clean.
—
After some minutes of relaxing and blacking out in the shower, I turned the knob and… Fuck. I don't even have a towel. Does the lady at the entrance also sell towels? Even if she does, I can't walk up there, almost naked, dripping like a defective faucet. Maybe there is a dryer mounted to a wall I could squeeze myself under to dry? Good luck not burning my stupid ass.
I have to face it.
"Conor?" I asked, making him turn his head to me as he wiped the towel over his back. "I don't have a towel," I said brokenly, as I felt I was dependent on his help now for almost everything.
Before I knew it, he threw his soggy towel at me and wandered off, shaking his blank ass while whistling a song I didn't know.
"Thank you," I called after him.
I wiped the towel over my hair first. It still smelled fresh, like it came right out of a washing machine, combined with what must be Conor’s scent. I stopped drying myself, holding the towel close to my face to sniff.
Have I always been such a creep?
Is Conor really making me aroused?
Maybe I have to face the fact that… perhaps… my feelings for Conor may be deeper than I can express.
